time to do so herself. Signor San Isidora charged himself with the commission in a polite and amiable manner, and after expressing the most anxious hope that she might not suffer from the day's exertion, he made his exit. When he was gone, Mrs. Trevor again took possession of her sofa, and turning languidly towards Christine-as she lay on it at full length-observed, with considerable animation :

"What a charming man your father is, Miss San Isidora; how fortunate we are in having so delightful a companion!"

Poor Christine started, for she was at the moment thinking of the probability of his having gone to some café to game, so she forced a constrained smile, and answered, that she was happy Mrs. Trevor should find him agreeable and useful.

'Oh, much more than that," replied the other. "I think him quite a pattern man, so handsome, polished, and accomplished, and, at the same time, so regardless of himself, and so solicitous to promote the comfort of others."

Christine raised her aching eyes, and looked at the lady with surprise, knowing that their acquaintance in Paris was a very recent one. "He has as yet had but little time to show his solicitude," she observed, while a sweet but faint smile curled for a moment her beautifully cut lip. There was a gleam of her usual self in her face as she spoke, and she saw Nola Trevor start, and regard her searchingly as she looked up from a book she had provided herself with, and Sophy send a stealthy glance across the table, where she was occupied in netting a purse. "What made them both look at me ?" thought she. "Have I said anything wrong or rude ?" Then turning towards the languid matron, she rejoined, in one of her soft, low cadences of voice: "It is a great pleasure to me, Mrs. Trevor, that you find my father a pleasant travelling companion, and I trust that you will have no cause to change your good opinion so long as our little journey continues-nay, I am sure that nothing will be wanting on his part to keep up the favourable impression he has been so fortunate as to make."

"You are a sweet girl," replied the reclining lady, sentimentally, "but how could you be otherwise when you are the daughter of such a father."

Christine was at a loss how to answer this observation, being at the moment internally agitated by the conviction that it would have been fortunate for her if her father had been different in many respects; but this was a secret of the heart, and she felt the tears fill her eyes as she endeavoured to thank Mrs. Trevor for the implied compliment.

Tea was soon brought in, and she revived under its exhilarating influence; her headache diminished, her grief-dimmed eyes began to sparkle with a little of their usual brilliancy, and her gentle manners to expand to their habitual gracefulness in accepting the civilities of the elder and younger ladies. As for Nola, she honoured her with no further notice than a rude stare from time to time. At length they withdrew to their respective rooms, and the harassed girl sought in vain to calm her perturbed thoughts as she lay listening for her father's return. His chamber was next to hers, and it was very late

before he came back, but she knew by the tone of his voice, as he spoke to one of the servants in ascending the stairs, that he was in high spirits. "He has been fortunate at play to-night," she thought, as she turned on her pillow; the fear of the moment was past, and she soon sank into a profound sleep. Alas! poor Christine, this was the first time she waked and watched the gamester's return; the first in a long series of anxious nights through which she was destined to pass with a heart feeling and bleeding for the father whom her judgment and principles condemned as the man.

THE COUNTRY GIRL IN LONDON.

BY NICHOLAS MICHELL.

SHE left the wooded valleys,

The streams that babbled mirth;

She left the garden's alleys,

And flowers, bright stars of earth:
She left the church grey peeping
Among the village trees,
No more to hear the sweeping
Bell-music on the breeze;
She trusted, of joy dreaming,
And hoped a brilliant fate;
His love was but love's seeming,
The mask fell off too late.

The night was dark and dreary,
Winds bitter as her woe;
She wandered weary, weary,
The long streets to and fro:
Spurned and cast off for ever,
"No friend, no helper nigh-
Return in shame? Ah! never-
Here better sink and die.
And so the lost one wandered,
Through London's 'wildering mart,

And deeply, sadly pondered-
God help that breaking heart!

The wintry rain was falling,
No house would shelter give;
So to a door-step crawling-
For even she would live;
To a cold door-step crawling,
Timid she sat her down,
One dear name faintly calling,

Till sobs that name would drown:

Yes, he was dear, though cruel;
Though false, she loved him still;

Suffering to love was fuel,
Burning through good and ill.

On, on, more weary, creeping,
On, on, more hopeless, sad;
Feeling the cold blast sweeping,
In her thin garments clad;
She reached an archway lonely,
The iron road above-

There would she hide; God only
Would look on her in love;
There would she, unmolested,
Crouch till kind morning rose,
Till her poor limbs were rested,
Calm thinking on her woes.

Against the cold stones leaning,
Dragging the slow, slow hours,
The arch but badly screening
From driving, drenching showers,
She passed the time, now weeping,
Now gazing through the dim,
Her tattered dress close keeping,
To warm her numbing limb:
She moaned but seldom, stooping
Her face upon her breast,

Her thin white hands low drooping-
She would, but could not, rest.

A torpor now oppressed her,

And feebly came her breath; It was not sleep which blessed her ; Was it slow-coming death? And yet her lip was smiling;

Heart's light on darkness stole;

Dear fancy was beguiling
The dying maiden's soul.
O Fancy! thy swift pinion
Can pass the gulf of pain,
And 'neath thy bright dominion,
Lost bliss once more we gain.

She saw her native village,

Far from vast London town,
The fields prepared for tillage,
The old elms nodding down:
She saw the dear
green garden
Oft played in when a child,
Ere sin her heart could harden;
She felt the zephyrs mild;
And birds were round her singing,
The flowers all blooming fair,
And village bells were ringing
Soft joy on evening's air.

A chorus of sweet voices-
Her sisters are at play,
And 'mid them she rejoices,
Happy and pure as they ;
And on one breast now leaning,
A mother's arms embrace;

She reads a tender meaning
In that forgiving face-

'Twas gone-the maiden started—
The arch, cold arch of stone-
The picture had departed;
Alone-again alone!

Alone-and she was dying;

Her cheek was white and cold; To God she now was sighing, To Him her sins were told: Her little feet were chilling, Her eyes slow lost their ray, With life's last tears now filling; She knelt and strove to pray: "God, pardon!" slowly drooping, The wronged, the lost one sighed, And then, her forehead stooping, She hid her face and died.

MUHBOOB JAN.

PART IV.

SOME time after Khurreem Buksh's establishment in the city one of the enterprising Britons who invariably find their way to any foreign country arrived at Delhi; he did not come as either a trader, or a traveller who was in search of information, and wishing to take notes; indeed, either of such characters might have found the place much too uncivilised, for the police regulations were not sufficiently stringent for the first, and a traveller, in conducting his inquiries probably (unless immediately provided with credentials from the government) would soon have had a summary stop put to his proceedings, however philosophical. But this man came to exercise the profession of which he had made himself a master. It was one that, of all others, would then have met with encouragement, and even still now would meet with extensive favour from all people in power and possessors of wealth in India. The applause and the substantial reward also with which persons in the East are ready to welcome any medical man who is successful in performing a cure of any kind is of a nature to remind one of the history which is told in Holy Writ, when the performance of miracles by the apostles elicited the ready worship of the awe-struck bystanders.

The

In the reign of Shah Jehan, when one of his daughters had fallen sick, and providentially a medical man named Boughton was present in the city, the emperor sent for him to try the effect of his skill. The doctor saw the invalid and prescribed for her. A cure followed. She became restored to complete health. When the emperor, overjoyed, saw his darling child well again, he sent for the doctor. He said, "I shall not offer you elephants, horses, gold, jewels, slaves, for were I to do so it would be like limiting the amount of my gratitude; but ask me anything any boon in the power of wealth to give, and I shall give it you.' doctor asked him to give permission to the English to trade and form a settlement in Bengal. The boon was granted, and thus the germ of the commerce between the countries originated, and the avenue to fortune to England was opened, and the foundation of her greatest monetary acquisition had its first commencement. This, which is only faintly glanced at in most of the histories written about India, is a traditional fact that one hears the natives often recount. In order to show the extreme ignorance of medicine which exists now, and the want of knowledge in the healing art throughout the provinces of India, particularly the treatment of physical cases, it is quite sufficient to quote from the journal of any traveller who has been amongst them. One of the most approved writers in Persian, Saadi, states that when a boy fell sick his friends had no other remedy to think of to effect his recovery than either to sacrifice a goat, or to go to a moolah and get him to open the Koran by making what is called a faal, that is, inserting your finger in the book and opening it at random, and seeing from what words are put at the top of the page whether the will of Fate or Allah decrees that the child will recover, or the contrary. Even the circumstance of one of